


best of both worlds

by spookyfoot



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hannah Montana Fusion, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Music, And in love, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Identity Reveal, Long-Haired Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Secret Identity, Victor Nikiforov is Extra, all you need to know about hannah montana is that there's a secret identity, but when is he not, eventually, this is a really loose au, yurio's terrible teenage crush on yuuri, yuuri is the clark kent of pop stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11158311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: Phichit seems unaware of Yuuri’s distress, “You know, if you just pushed your hair back—" He leans in to push Yuuri’s hair back from his forehead, and Yuuri swears he’s back in chemistry watching his desk burst into flame, wondering if Victor Nikiforov’s infamous cascade of silver hair now has singe marks at the end of it.“—you’d look just like him.”“Don’t! ” Yuuri screeches.“What? Why?” Phichit leans back from the sheer volume of Yuuri’s distress.“I….was born without a forehead!” This is why Minako has him practice standard press answers—his brain’s a wildcard when he goes off-script.“Really, Yuuri? That’s what you’re going with?”____Yuuri Katsuki lives a double life: by day he's a normal high school student, by night he's Eros,one of the world's most in demand pop stars.Everything's just fine until pop sensation Victor Nikiforov decides he want to have "normal teenage experience" and enrolls at Yuuri's school.





	best of both worlds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doodlesonice](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=doodlesonice).



> this is the product of au roulette, approximately...48(????) hours of twitter dms with [doodles on ice](https://doodlesonice.tumblr.com) aka [@the_sad_gay](https://twitter.com/the_sad_gay) about a hannah montana au, and an overly specific playlist. 
> 
> original summary: HANNAH MONTANA AU I'LL DEAL WITH THIS LATER
> 
> i wanted to credit doodlesonice as my co-author because a lot of plotting went down in that twitter convo as well as bits of dialogue but ao3 wouldn't let me since she doesn't have an account here. so. gift fic.
> 
> where i would usually use words like "fuck" and "shit" and "asshole" (i miss you ;-;) i've instead chosen to use pseudo-swears b/c this is ~family programming~ ;) (well....for now)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor moves to Santa Barbara. Phichit finds out Yuuri's secret identity.

_Life and Style Exclusive! “Prince of Pop Victor Nikiforov To Retire? ‘I want to live a normal life’ Nikiforov says at Teen Tiger Beat Choice Awards”_

“I’ve been in the spotlight since I was five on Barney and Friends. I think it’s time to pay attention to my education, and make some friends outside of the Hollywood limelight.”

_Click Here to continue reading the Exclusive interview:_

_View comments:_

**victormyhusbandnikiforov:** HE CANT DO THIS TO US I”M S O B B IN G

 **inre-guards!guards!** : he can do whatever he wants, we don’t know 4 sure he’s done

 **stammi-the-hell-away-from-me** : he’ll nvr come back after this, hollywood has a goldfish memory.

 **iamerosed:** he’s only moving to SB, chill.

 **stammi-the-hell-away-from-me** : no u

________________________

Yuri’s at least three notches above his usual shade of furious that his idiot brother made _all_ of them move to this moronic town.

“I can't believe you dragged us to this backwater town so you could play American teen movie heartthrob.”

“It’ll be fun, Yura! Think of it like…research.” Victor sauys, speeding down PCH, almost hitting the divider before swerving abruptly into the other lane.

“Research for what? How to do a convincing idiot impression?”

“For your figure skating routines!”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because Lilia’s definitely going to choreograph me a routine about being late to history class.”

Victor just beams. “Yes exactly! You’ll surprise your audience without a doubt!”

“I hate you.”

“Love you too, Yura!”

The rest of the car ride is a slap fight for control of the radio, and Yuri desperately wishing he’d ridden with Yakov, Makkachin, and Potya. But Victor had pouted about being left “completely, insensitively abandoned,” on the drive to their new home and Yuri knew he’d hear about it for days unless he suffered through Victor’s driving.

They arrive at their new house, a palatial beach front estate with everything you could possibly need (and a lot of things most people would never _ever_ need). Yuri grudgingly admits the house is nice.

(Even though he has to live there with his brother.)

Victor even lets him have first pick of (all fifteen of) the bedrooms.

(Twenty four hours later and he’s cursing any kind thoughts he ever had towards Victor.)

________________________

They peel off towards their respective bedrooms. Victor immediately opens his laptop and plays his favorite song—an mp3 he’d ripped from a youtube video featuring an acapella cover of “Riding the L,” one of his early solo singles. Whoever’d posted it—they hadn’t shown their face on screen—took it down only hours later. He’s lucky he ripped the file before they did.

Every time he listens to it, it’s like the music reaches into his chest and pulls—at something he wasn’t sure was there anymore.

(You grow up on enough sets, enough tours, enough talk shows, and you start to question whether any emotion is real. )

Then he unpacks the essentials: the shojou manga Georgi, his old bandmate from _RUS_ had lent him (he was never getting them back), his prized collection of blu-rays (teen romantic comedies about American high school gifted from his best friend Chris through the years), Makkachin’s dog bed, and his posters of Eros.

He’s practically vibrating at the idea of starting school tomorrow.

Sure, he still has some press obligations—the ones he couldn’t pull out of last minute or those that Yakov insists he do to keep his name out there—and sure Chris (model/actor/talkshow host/Victor’s best friend) had expressed his own disbelief at Victor’s choices, but really, this was it. This was Victor’s shot at a Normal Teenage Life ™. And Victor Nikiforov never did things halfway—he was jumping in both feet first.

__________________________

_Eros’ “On Love” debuts at number one on the Billboard Hot 100, has remained there for 30 weeks._

Mysterious pop idol, Eros, maintains his grip on the top of the pop charts, moving over 3 million digital units and 1 million physical CDs. The album has already been certified triple platinum…

_Click here to continue reading_

_View comments:_

**niktorvikiforov** : hack

 **in-re-guards!guards!** : stfu

 **niktorvikiforov** : make me

________________________

Yuuri shifts from leg to leg. Minako stabs him with a pin.

(He’s pretty sure it was on purpose.)

“Son of a katsudon!”

“Watch your language,” Minako chides, though she doesn’t look anything other than amused, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Watch your needles then.”

“I wouldn’t _have_ to if you weren’t moving.”

“Are the two of you done?” Mari asks, arms folded across her chest. “You know Yuuri still has to get ready for school tomorrow, even if Eros also has a concert tomorrow.”

Yuuri sighs, and casts a hostile look at the pile of books on the table. He doesn’t mind school, but he _loves_ summer vacation, when the two halves of his life don’t push against one another like shifting tectonic plates.

(He’s never sure which one will be subducted beneath the other.)

“Yuuri. You know you have to go to school. It was part of the deal when you recorded your first album. You wanted a normal life, that’s why we created Eros. And a normal life means regular school.”

“I feel like a triple platinum album should at least qualify me for tutoring.”

Minako sighs. “I swear you use up all your patience with the press.”

(She’s not wrong.)

Yuuri’s phone chimes from the table. “Mari, can you…?”

“I’m not your assistant, Yuuri. You don’t even pay me.” Still, she grabs the phone and presses the home screen. “Yuuri, strip!”

“What?” Yuuri yelps.

“Phichit incoming in less than two minutes.”

“What the lutz,” Yuuri curses, pulling the tight black and silver body suit off of his body as quickly as he can without disrupting the delicate decoration of pins dotting and diving just below the surface.

Yuuri speeds up the stairs, stumbling over a few steps before reaching his room, and sliding on a hoodie and pair of sweatpants he’d discarded on the floor earlier that morning.

(Minako always whines that he won’t wear any of the cashmere loungewear that companies send him. These smell like home.)

“Yuuri!”

(Just in time.)

Phichit’s lounging outside of the French doors that lead out to the balcony attached to Yuuri’s room. Yuuri’s long since stopped questioning how Phichit gets up there.

(He’s never seen a ladder or rope. It’s an eternal mystery.)

“I have the greatest surprise in the history of surprises. No, the greatest surprise in the history of before surprises!”

“That doesn’t make any sense?”

Phichit ignores him. “We. Are. Going. To. Eros’s. Concert.” Phichit brandishes the tickets in front of him like a magic wand.

Yuuri’s face is frozen in a Wilhelm Scream.

“How? When? Why?” Yuuri sputters. This is a _disaster_. Hamster threat level five thousand.

“I know a guy who knows a guy who owes that other guy a favor, who owed me a favor — ” Phichit smirks.

Yuuri can’t follow his logic.

“I can’t go.”

“Seriously? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! Look!” Phichit waves the tickets in front of his face again and Yuuri’s _so tempted_ to snatch them from Phichit’s palms and rip them into a million pieces. “Second row, center seat!”

The room goes white at the edges, the toll of an invisible bell rings in Yuuri’s ears.

Yuuri’s too startled to make his mouth form words. The pause is too long. “Yuuri?”

He can’t breathe.

“Yuuri!”

________________________

Victor bounces into his first day of high school like he’s heading to an amusement park.

(And in his mind it’s basically the same thing.)

The first half of the day passes in a blissful chorus of whispers, adulation, and not-at-all-subtle camera flashes during English and History.

(Victor’s a little perturbed that the teachers expected him to have done the readings. Weren’t the books just props? Movies mostly cut away from class scenes. He’d figure it out. He could do this. He could keep up a constant internal monologue of confidence. He knows enough about high school to know that you never show fellow teenagers an ounce of uncertainty—they’ll be on you like lions on an injured gazelle.)

Lunch is the real test. Some of the brave ones try to catch his eye or wave him over. The struggle isn’t finding a table—it’s finding the _right_ one.

(He watched _Mean Girls_. He knows that cafeteria seating is a distillation of the high school hierarchy.)

Distracted by a sea of crop tops, nose rings, khakis, and overly ambitious hair dye, Victor fails to notice just exactly where he’s going—or who might be going in the opposite direction.

People talk all the time about not being able to look away from a car crash.

That’s not the reason Victor’s staring at the boy who now has a sweater with a side of gravy.

(Oh my god, he’s beautiful).

________________________

Eros had an interview this morning. Yuuri fought with Phichit last night.

Yuuri spent the first half of his day in a sea of swirling rumors and #spotted: Victor Nikiforov, and he just wants to make bad food choices, maybe dip some fries in a milkshake, and slump through the rest of the day so he can make it to his concert.

Law of averages: Yuuri knows he’s going to run into Victor.

He’s anxious and frustrated—the emotional equivalent of a raccoon burrowing through last week’s trash—which means one of three options:

  1. He’ll be an anxious mess and run away
  2. He’ll insult Victor
  3. He’ll be so anxious he’ll insult Victor and then run away



But first, he ends up with a shirt full of gravy.

(Someone get him a turkey.)

“Oh sorry!” Victor flipping Nikiforov says, all flowing silver hair, heart bowed smile, and assessing gaze.

There’s an utterly conspicuous flash mob of camera shutters in the background.

Victor strikes a pose. Yuuri’s not even sure he knows he’s doing it.

“Where are you sitting? I’d love to have lunch with you!” Victor winks, three quarters of the cafeteria develops nosebleeds, and Yuuri feels the first slide of gravy against his skin. He pulls his shirt off.

“I can’t. I have to drain my shirt. It’s suddenly acquired a gravy moat.”

“Oh! Here,” Victor pulls his own shirt off, pale, hairless chest gleaming under the buzzy florescent lights.

“You’re really pale.” #NoFilter Katsuki strikes again. He’s too distracted by the glare from Victor’s chest to focus.

Victor preens.

(Victor’s skin is fighting with ten other body parts for his top five best features.)

“Am I shining?”

“Very brightly.” Victor’s practically _glowing_ —like those plastic stars you stick to your ceiling.

“So…lunch?”

Victor peers at him, face advancing closer closer closer. And then #NoFilter Katsuki goes for broke. “Oh, you wax your chest.”

Yuuri doesn’t bother to catch Victor’s expression before he flees.

(Option c is the winner. There’s no prize behind door number 3.)

________________________

Yuri snorts just behind Victor, he’d stomped up just in time to witness the tail end of that mess. “Almost as smooth as your chest.”

Victor ignores him. “Yuri, I’m in love.”

“Because he noticed you wax your chest? I don’t understand your brain at all.”

“I’m an artistic genius, I wouldn’t expect you to,” Victor sniffs.

“It took us a full year to find musicians who would tour with you.”

(Victor likes to improvise. Professionals should be able to handle an entirely unplanned medley of Madonna’s greatest hits blended with his own. Honestly, it’s like Yakov keeps trying to hire _amateurs_.)

“He's just so beautiful, I want to kiss away the wrinkle between his brows,” Victor sighs.

“I’m so glad I didn't eat lunch before having this conversation.”

“I need to know everything about him.” Victor is suddenly oblivious to the entire cafeteria of sycophants scrambling for his attention.

Eventually he and Yuri settle at a table near one of the floor to ceiling windows. He’s suddenly less interested in high school dynamics, and entirely enthralled with the beautiful boy who had reached into his—waxed—chest and pulled feelings out of it.

After lunch, Victor gets lost on the way to chemistry. Petersburg Academy isn’t a big school; it’s just hard to keep track of your surroundings when you’re more focused on finding one unruly mop of hair than keeping track of your surroundings.

He makes it to chemistry fifteen minutes late. Mr. Liola directs him to the only empty bench—right next to Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria.

(High school is _amazing_.)

He slides into the seat next to his partner, tossing his hair and shooting Beautiful Boy from the Cafeteria his best wink—the one he reserves for tastefully suggestive photoshoots.

(“Ha, tasteful,” Yuri had snorted when Victor had pranced around their Brentwood home with the proofs.

“It’s _art,_ Yura. Do you know how many naked paintings there are in the Louvre?” Victor said, leaning over Yuri’s shoulder.

“Do you know there’s a picture of you next to ‘delusional’ in the dictionary?”

Yuri ripped the pictures into pieces, and then tore those into even smaller pieces.

“I expected a better quip than that, if I’m honest.” Victor pouted. He looked forward to Yura’s witticisms. In another life, he could have been a screenwriter.

“I would say I expected better from you, but I _really_ didn’t.”

“Now you’re on the right track!”

Yuri tossed the picture confetti into the air as he stalked off.

“I’m always here if you need photoshoot advice! I support your choices!” )

Victor waits for Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria to blush and for the rapid transformation into an actual heart eyes emoji.

(That does not happen.)

Instead, Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria cringes. Victor flutters his eyelashes before realizing that the links in the chain of his usual seduction pattern have been broken.

(He flails.)

“Wow! What a surprise! We meet again, it must be fate.” Victor slides into his seat, “accidentally” brushing his arm against Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria’s.

“Does that sort of line usually work for you?”

Victor lets out an unattractive snort that sounds like a goose honking. The same one he accidentally let rip during a Vogue photoshoot, and then hushed up with a forest’s worth of Non-Disclosure Agreements.

“Usually, yes.” No one knows you’ve made a mistake but you, he tells himself. Stage logic! It’s never failed him.

“What a tragedy, then. Will you ever recover?” Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria is still looking at his notes but he’s also not _not_ smiling.

“The depends on what kind of medicine is available to me.” Victor tries the wink again.

(Plus zero attraction points. It’s not very effective.)

“Well since we’re in a chemistry lab, it’s more likely you’d get dissolved by acid.

Be careful of someone offering you a drink.” The Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria raises one of the erlenmeyer flasks from the counter in front of them in a mock toast.

As Victor opens his mouth to reply, the door to the classroom slams open to reveal a tall, bleach blonde man with eyelashes that make mascara weep.

(Victor did not expect Chris to follow him to Santa Barbara. Maybe he should have, considering how upset Chris was when Victor left LA.

“How could you so cruelly abandon me, Vitya?” Chris pouted over coffee at the Urth Cafe on Melrose. The barista had drawn her phone number into the foam on top of his latte.

“Chris, you have a talk show, an upcoming collaboration with Usher, and the Versace campaign—just this month. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

Chris opened his mouth to protest but Victor cut him off. “Besides, Santa Barbara is only two hours away.”)

“Vitya!” Chris all but screams. He must have forgotten not to project for the camera. Half the class clutches their palm to their ears.

(It only took two days for Chris to visit. Must be a new record.)

The Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria sinks down in his seat. Victor doesn’t have a chance to say anything before Chris dashes to his side—presumably going in for a hug but actually knocking over a beaker that’s apparently full of something highly flammable when it interacts with oxygen.

(Who knew spontaneous combustion was a thing that happened in real life?)

(Not Victor.)

The first thing Victor learns in his new life as a totally-normal-high-school-student-who-takes-chemistry is that labs have hair-trigger sprinklers.

The second is that anything that’s not exclusively hard water plays havoc with his hair.

The third is that two celebrities in a small location equal a horde of paparazzi stampeding through the linoleum halls of Petersburg Academy like a horde of hyenas on the trial of a wildebeest.

In all the chaos, Victor doesn’t notice Beautiful Boy From The Cafeteria slip away.

(He never even got to learn his name.)

(Tomorrow. He’ll learn his name tomorrow.)

________________________

“This is a disaster. I’m dropping out of school and moving to Nova Scotia. I hear they have moose there. I like moose. In theory at least.” Yuuri paces back and forth in his living room as Mari and Minako stare at him with identical raised eyebrows.

“Moose are vicious, you know.” Mari pulls her phone out of her pocket.

“Besides, how long have you been at Petersburg? Five years? There’s no way any one will suspect anything now. You went there _before_ you became Eros.”

“If anything comes up, we’ll take care of it.” Minako punches a fist into her palm to emphasize her point.

“I’m starting to think your music career was a front for your mafia connections.” Mari smirks.

“Please, the mafia _wishes_ they could afford my services.”

“If you two are done, I’m still mid-panic.” Yuuri flops down into the armchair opposite the couch where Mari and Minako are perched.

“There’s nothing to panic about. We’re ahead of any leak. And if one comes up, we’ve got the nuclear katsudon option.” Minako rises to grab Yuuri’s—Eros’—costume from the hall closet.

“Sure, tell the guy with anxiety not to panic. That’s really good advice,” Yuuri mutters.

“Speaking of panic,” Mari stalks over to sit on the arm of Yuuri’s chair, “what are you doing about Phichit.”

“I don’t know!” So now he has to write all the songs _and_ come up with all the answers?

“Well, you should probably figure it out, because he’s at the gate,” Minako says, shoving Eros’ new costume back into its plastic casing.

“Is the moose still an option? Because I liked that option. It was solid, well thought out, a little rustic. I look good in flannel, Vanity Fair said so.” Yuuri is getting really attached to this whole Nova Scotia plan. He wants to draw little hearts in his notebooks for this idea. And then he never has to see Victor again. Absolute perfection, someone give him an award.

Minako shots him A Look before she flat out _runs_  upstairs—probably to Mari’s room.

It’s just in time, Phichit barrels through the door. “Yuuri, I forgive you because I am the best friend and we are going to have the _best_ time tonight.”

Mari slides away into the kitchen, absolutely _no help at all_.

Yuuri sighs. Why will no one let him just smother his problems in maple syrup and eat away his—delicious—anguish while he runs away? Is that really so much to ask?

Phichit pauses, and looks at him, contemplative. “You know, I’ve never really noticed it but you kind of look like Eros.”

(Son of a lutz.)

(Where’s a moose when you need it? Or at least Mari or Minako?)

Phichit seems unaware of Yuuri’s distress, “You know, if you just pushed your hair back—“ He leans in to push Yuuri’s hair back from his forehead, and Yuuri _swears_ he’s back in chemistry watching his desk burst into flame, wondering if Victor Nikiforov’s infamous cascade of silver hair now has singe marks at the end of it.

“—you’d look just like him.”

“ _Don’t!_ ” Yuuri screeches.

“What? Why?” Phichit leans back from the sheer volume of Yuuri’s distress.

“I….was born without a forehead!” This is why Minako has him practice standard press answers—his brain’s a wildcard when he goes off-script.

“Really, Yuuri? That’s what you’re going with?”

“I—“

“No. I’m not—“ Phichit sighs and looks at the tickets in his hands, “I’ve _always_ supported you. Even when you tried to convince me culottes were a good idea—they’re still not, by the way. So why don’t I feel like a priority in this friendship?”

“You are a priority!”

“No. Clearly I’m not. Otherwise you’d go with me, and you wouldn’t be running off to all these ‘appointments’ all the time.” Phichit waits, letting Yuuri fill in the gaps.

(But he can’t.)

“Phichit—“ he says, after a silence that stretches and stretches, endless like trying to approach the horizon.

“No. Just…forget it. I’ll take Guang-Hong tonight I guess.”

Phichit bolts without a backward glance.

(Yuuri’s never been so glad to slip on his Eros mask.)

________________________

“Yakov, we’re home!” Victor sings as he enters through the front door, dropping his bag in the foyer next to one of the marble busts he insisted that they bring from their home in Los Angeles.

(“It just doesn’t seem like home without a marble bust,” he sighed, arranging his features into the most forlorn expression he could manage.

He still looked vaguely smug but Yakov gave in so he’ll count it as a victory.)

“Kitchen. Now.” Victor doesn’t have to see Yakov to imagine the look on his face, pinched mouth, eyebrows drawn tighter than a set of venetian blinds in a noir film, a spill of angry red painted across his cheeks. Victor is very _very_ familiar with this look.

(He likes to imagine it’s one of quasi-paternal affection.)

Yuri’s already at the broad white-washed table, fingers drumming on the surface, practically vibrating with excitement—or whatever passes for it where Yuri’s concerned.

(For someone who’s impressively expressive on the ice, he’s utterly disdainful of showing a similar amount of emotion in his day to day life.)

“What’s the occasion?” Victor flops down in the chair next to Yuri, the sudden force creating a resounding screech. He remains unfazed.

“Since you _refuse_ to do any more press while you’re off chasing this ridiculous whim of yours that I still suspect was born out of watching The Brunch Club too many times, I’ve arranged what _should_ be a more palatable option.” Yakov pulls a pair of tickets from a manilla envelope and waives them in front of Victor and Yuri—a baited fishhook.

“I’m sure both of you know Eros has a concert tonight,” both Victor and Yuri sit up ramrod straight in their chairs at “Eros”, “and I’ve procured two tickets, plus backstage passes for tonight.”

Victor reaches out to snatch the tickets from Yakov’s grip, just a split second faster than his brother. It doesn’t matter because Yakov pulls them away just as quickly, dangling them out of reach.

“But, you only get these tickets if you agree to do some extra press for your last album.”

“Fine, fine,” Victor promises, snatching the tickets out of Yakov’s hand before flouncing up to his room to admire his (ever-growing) Eros shrine.

(Yuri trails after him, alternately bargaining and berating. His efforts are ultimately futile.)

Victor holds the tickets over Yuri’s head—just out of his reach—the entire afternoon. And at the V.I.P entrance. And during the entire concert—Yuri wants his ticket stub to add to the Eros scrapbook he denies exists.

They’re close to the end of Eros’s set now, and staring up at him on stage, Victor wants to throw himself and his underwear at Eros’ feet, maybe not in that order. He wonders if this is how his own fans feel.

“You’re drooling.” Yuri’s face is contorted between glee and nausea.

“Can you blame me?” Victor waves his arm, just missing decking their left neighbor in the face.

“Yes. I can and I will.” Yuri pulls out his phone and takes several washed out photos.

“I mean, look at him, he’s so sexy. Oh god those _thighs_.” Victor’s partly ignoring Yuri, partly needling him, and mostly entirely enthralled.

“I have never been so disgusted in my life.”

“Don’t play coy, Yura. I’ve seen your posters.”

“I’m disgusted with _you,_ not him.” Yuri snaps another picture of the stage.

Eros has just finished his rendition of “In Regards To Love,” the title track from his second album. He’d stood blindfolded on the stage, stark military style coat buttoned up to his neck, the red underside of his cape billowing in the manufactured breeze. Victor had gotten actual chills, opened the zippo lighter app on his phone, and waved it in the air in time with the beat. Yuri threatened to douse him him in boiling water.

(“Awww, you really do care!”

“Shut up!” )

“I can appreciate the beauty of the human body! That’s the basis of most art!” Victor protests.

“I would ask what’s wrong with you but I don’t have enough time to list everything. “

Eros fled the stage under the cover of a cloud of smoke, but the house lights haven’t come all the way back up. Victor knows from experience that this means an encore—and Eros always surprises his audience with unexpected covers once they beg him to come back out on stage.

Sure enough, the roars of the crowd draw Eros back out onto the stage, now dressed in a simple white collared shirt and black pants.

Victor’s pretty sure he ascends to heaven during Eros’ stripped down, jazz inspired cover of Miike Snow’s “Animal,” Eros’ vocals curling around his ears like tendrils of smoke.

Entirely transfixed, Victor watches as Eros strips off his shirt and pants to reveal a black body suit, half mesh, a quarter rhinestones, and a hundred percent sex appeal.

“Can you check my pulse?” Victor is pretty sure he’s dead and this is a vision from the beyond.

Yuri doesn’t even bother to reach out. “You’re still alive—unfortunately.”

On stage, Eros launches into a rendition of one of Victor’s favorite songs from his catalogue—“Finite,” voice soaring above the outdoor amphitheater until the melody finishes with a flourish of glittery streamers, launched from cannons on either side of the stage.

“I need a minute,” Victor breathes. He never wants to move from this spot, from this moment.

“I’ll give you one minute, and then we’re heading backstage.”

In the rush of Eros’ performance, Victor had almost forgotten—they were going to meet. Finally.

But first, he needs to check his hair and breath. A gentleman is always prepared.

He must say this out loud because Yuri punches his arm, and slaps a hand over his mouth. Victor licks it—true love will not be silenced.

_He’s going to meet Eros._

________________________

Yuuri stares at his face in the mirror. Except it’s not his face. It’s Eros—smoked out eyes, winged liner, and slicked back hair. His costume’s already hanging on a rack near the door, ready to be steam-cleaned before tomorrow nights show.

The only evidence of Yuuri’s other identity is the face he’s looking at in the mirror.

He stretches, and pads into the ensuite bathroom—a necessity Minako always make sure to include in his rider.

One thing he had _absolutely not requested_ was the Victor Nikiforov mask Mari had snuck into his dressing room while he did a pre-show sound check. “I hate you so much,” he grumbled at her in his dressing room while he finished getting ready.

“Mhhm, you say that but you didn’t get rid of it.”

“Shut up.”

“Denial is bad for the skin,” Minako chimed in from just behind them.

“You’re both fired,” Yuuri said as he touched up his eyeliner.

“You can’t fire family,” Mari replied, lifting a handful of mozzarella sticks from the assortment of food in Yuuri’s dressing room.

“They told me I couldn’t wear a dress on Good Morning America too. Just watch me.”

“Awww,” Mari said, moving closer to pat Yuuri on the shoulder, “I love my tsundere brother.”

Yuuri grabbed the mask and shoved it in Mari’s face. “You’re not helping your case.”

“Oh look, intermission’s over, time to get back on stage,” Minako said, shepherding Yuuri back towards the dressing room door. “Eros has a show to do, mask or not.”

Three hours later and the mask is still there. Maybe it’ll miraculously disappear by the time he gets out of the shower.

(Miraculously disappear to the memorabilia collection he stores in the false back of his wardrobe.)

While he’d prefer to do this at home, it’s part of his post-show routine to shower and he’ll feel unsteady without the comforting rhythm of routine. The steady beat of water against tile relaxes him and washes away the last outward vestiges of Eros from Yuuri’s skin.

(Who knew hygiene could be your downfall?)

Wrapped in the fluffy white robe he insists on bringing to every one of his shows, Yuuri shuffles back into his dressing room, staring longingly at the spread craft services set up for a post-show feast. The pie in particular is calling to him.

Concerts take enough out of him that Minako loosens the leash on his diet post-show.

“Oh my god.”

Oh no. Yuuri knows that voice. What the hell is _Phichit_ doing backstage.

“Will you take a selfie with me?”

Yuuri is still staring the the pie, back towards the bathroom. “How did you get in here?”

“I came in through the bathroom window.” A pause, then, “You know, you should consider doing a cover of that song.”

“I’ll put it on the list.” Yuuri’s throat is dryer than a documentary on the history of paperclips and he’s fighting the squeak that threatens to worm its way out of his throat. Focus. This is just another performance. For his best friend. Who is _right behind him_.

“So selfie?”

Yuuri looks at the pie, says a silent apology to the gods of baked goods—he _knows_ they exist, he’s had the butter cake at Maestro’s—and shoves his freshly washed face into a pile of whipped cream.

(In hindsight, it’s not his best idea. But it is so _so_ far from the worst.)

“What just happened?” Phichit asks, torn between excitement—Yuuri knows his friend well enough to know he’s imagining the number of likes a picture of a pie-faced Eros would garner on Instagram—and utter disbelief.

“Post show ritual.” Yuuri splatters whipped cream everywhere, droplets landing all over the rest of the food on the table. He looks at the tray of buffalo wings currently sprinkled with whipped cream. It’s definitely not the weirdest food combination he’s thought about trying. If he makes it out of this with his identity intact—he’s given up on preserving his dignity— then he’ll give it a shot.

“Really?” Yuuri can hear the skepticism from across the room. The patter of feet sounds on the tile floor. Oh god Phichit’s moving closer.

“Yes, it’s uh—it’s all about living in the moment. The impact of the pie brings you back to the present. Oprah does it all the time. She told me during a week long silent meditation retreat. In Istanbul. There were camels.” Yuuri’s scanning the room for Plan B—Phichit keeps inching closer and really there’s only so much a layer of whipped cream can do to conceal his identity. His eyes do a hop, skip, and a jump across the vanity at the back of the room land on the lovely Victor Nikiforov mask Mari placed on top of his costume before the show.

Yuuri strides across the room, embarrassingly thankful his sister enjoys making his life difficult, grabs the mask, and shoves it over his face, painting the inside with a layer of sticky whipped cream. Ugh.

“How could she tell you if the retreat was silent?” Phichit is genuinely curious and Yuuri is still panicking.

Yuuri whips around, brave enough to face Phichit now that his _face_ doesn’t have to face Phichit.

“We’re both fluent in sign language,” he lies.

“You’ve got a little Victor Nikiforov on your face.” Phichit’s moving closer and Yuuri’s looking over his shoulder praying that Mari or Minako will barge into his dressing room like they always do after shows—except when he _actually needs them_ apparently.

“Actually, I _am_ Victor Nikiforov.” Yuuri is _definitely_ researching properties in Nova Scotia. He can have the private plane ready in less than an hour.

“You just answered to Eros? And I saw your hair?”

Yuuri fumbles, “it’s a, uh, confidence exercise I learned from Angelina Jolie.”

Maybe Yuuri can climb out the bathroom window like Phichit climbed in.

“What?”

“We’re both part of a blood ritual cult. I’m from Hollywood, you don’t even know what we get up to after the Grammy’s.” Someone please stop him.

“Is that what the posters are for?” Phichit is raising an eyebrow, not even trying to contain his disbelief.

Yuuri casts a panicked look to the wall opposite his vanity. Sure enough it’s plastered with Victor Nikiforov posters. Goddamn it Mari.

“Sure. Let’s go with that. I need to renew the demon pact every five days.  Otherwise I lose half of my vocal range.” Great, now there are demon pacts.

This is just wonderful.

Phichit inches closer. “Are you serious?”

“Yes! I mean…no , it’s for a bit i’m doing!”

“Are you going to be on SNL or something?” Phichit’s just a few feet away from him. Oh no. “Is…Yuuri?” Phichit says, pulling the mask off Yuuri’s face. There’s very little whipped cream left.

Deny or no comment, Yuuri tells himself. That’s like ninety percent of press training. “Who’s Yuuri?”

“Yuuri, I know it’s you.”

“You know someone who looks like me? It must be my long lost twin brother. I’ve been searching for years, _oh the agony_.” He presses a hand to his forehead to simulate deep emotional anguish, but he’s pretty sure he just looks constipated. There goes Minako’s plan to have him break into acting.

“Actually I _do_ someone who looks like you—because he _is_ you. God, Yuuri I _gave_ you that scar by your ear from we tried to give you a perm in sixth grade. Like I wouldn’t recognize my own best friend?”

“Oh, wow, he has a scar too?” Abort, abort. Yuuri inches backwards, attempting to direct himself towards the bathroom even though he can’t see where he’s going. That’s his status quo though—without glasses or contacts he’s pretty much blind.

“ _Yuuri_.”

Yuuri sighs. Minako and Mari are going to kill him, but he’s honestly more afraid of Phichit. And Phichit deserves to know the truth.

“Yes, Phichit.”

“I _knew it_.” Phichit does an actual fist pump. Yuuri will make fun of him for that later. Right now…there are more important matters. Phichit’s face falls.

“Why didn’t you _tell me_?”

“I couldn’t! The only people who know are the ones who absolutely have to.” Well, and Seung-Gil Lee—but he’d managed to figure it out on his own.

“Does Leo know? Is he your actual best friend?” Phichit flops down in the arm chair on the other side of the buffet table.

“No, _of course not_. You’re my best friend. You always will be.” Yuuri sits down on the couch across from him.

“Well, forgive me for not knowing my supposed best friend is actually the pop star version of Clark Kent.” Phichit’s smiling a little.

“Clark Kent? Really?”

“It’s the glasses.” And that’s when Yuuri knows that right now everything’s not okay, but…it will be.

“Excuse my genetics for giving me terrible eyesight.”

“You’re excused.”

Phichit giggles, then his face draws back to a frown. “We’re not done talking about this.”

Yuuri sighs, he figured as much. “We’ll talk as much as you need.”

“First things first: can you get me front row seats to Beyonce?”

“I think I can manage that,” Yuuri says, smiling.

A deafening knock on the door sounds, startling them out of their seats.

“What—“ Yuuri starts.

“Eros, Victor Nikiforov here to see you.”

Yuuri turns to Phichit, face drained of all color. “Do you think the window trick would work again?”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to: 
> 
> +[doodles on ice](https://doodlesonice.tumblr.com) aka [@the_sad_gay](https://twitter.com/the_sad_gay) on twitter for all of the ridiculous and amazing twitter dms. there is so much planned for this au y'all.  
> +[meg <3 ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/pseuds/FullmetalChords) for reading early drafts, workshopping some moments, A+++ revision advice, and providing amazing support  
> +[nuri aka seventhstar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar) for brainstorming, test reader reactions, unwavering support of this insanity, and a lot of great revision advice  
> +shout out to my writer wife [LittleLostStar ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar) and her amazing one-shot "Second Row, Center Seat" which is where i put Phichit for Eros' concert ;)  
> +substances that spontaneously combust when exposed to oxygen are called [pyrophoric substances ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pyrophoricity) why they'd allow them in a high school chemistry lab? who knows. but this is an au of an anime about gay ice skaters merged with a disney channel sitcom. you're not here for veracity. let's be honest. though i did use hydrochloric acid in high school chemistry so i guess anything is possible ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> +i'm here on [tumblr](http://katsukiyuuristrophyhusband.tumblr.com) for fic previews and updates if you're into that sort of thing


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